Purpose
by LindaO
Summary: Post "Prisoner's Dilemma", Nicholas Donnelly wakes up in a private hospital where no one knows his name. He's been declared dead. The mysterious Mr. Smith has even thoughtfully provided him with a video of his own funeral. Obviously, Donnelly needs a new identity. A job. And a purpose. Chaos AU, after "Close to Home" (but you really only need to read "By the Book")


The light was much too bright.

Nicholas Donnelly opened his eyes, then quickly squeezed them shut. Too bright. Much too bright. And though there was a certain hush to the space around him, it was too loud and too warm.

Where the hell was he?

He squinted and let his eyes open just a bit. The light was still very bright, pure white, but it stabbed a little less. He blinked a few times. His throat was dry, raw. There was something stuck in it, but he wasn't choking on it. The rest of his body … he couldn't feel a thing. Only his throat and his eyes.

He tried to move his fingers. Nothing. Toes. Nothing. Blinking. He could blink. But move his head? No.

Was he paralyzed? If he was, why could he still breathe? He tried to close his mouth, to swallow. Something between his teeth. Hard, but flexible. He moved his tongue a little. It was smooth, round. Tube, it was a tube, in his throat, and he was choking on it. He fought it, coughed, struggled.

Alarms went off, buzzers and beeps, maybe a dozen of them, each with its own rhythm and all too loud. Then there were voices, quick, professional, calm. A thumb on his face, and his eyelid was pulled open and a horribly bright light flashed again. Then the lid dropped and the other process was repeated on the other side. There were hands on his chest, on his arm, and though he couldn't move, he could feel them. That was something, at least.

Warmth washed over him, relaxing him. Drugs, he knew. They were putting him back under. He tried to fight it. It was like drowning in warm. He closed his eyes.

The bright light went away.

* * *

The next time he woke, the lights were dimmer and the room was quieter. He looked up at an exam light, florescent tubes behind a mesh wire frame, but it was turned off. He clenched his teeth, successfully. The tube was gone. He took a deep breath, then another one.

His throat still hurt. He tried to swallow, but there was no saliva in his mouth. He coughed instead.

"Here you go, sir," a woman's voice said softly. There was a straw against his lips. He sipped gratefully; the water was cool. She took it away after his first sip. "You can have more in just a moment. You need to go slowly at first."

Donnelly took another deep breath and turned his head to look at her. She was a brunette, about his age, in a navy blue scrub top. No ID badge. "Where …?" he asked.

"You're at Chelsea Hospital. You're doing fine. And you're safe here."

He didn't think he'd ever heard of the place. Private hospital? The fact that she'd assured him he was safe —should he be worried about that? He closed his eyes, tried to remember. He'd been driving. There had been an accident. No, not an accident. What, then? "How long?" he murmured.

"How long have you been here? Eight days. Would you like your head up a bit?"

Donnelly nodded, and she raised the head of the bed just a little. It allowed him a view of the room. It was a perfectly normal hospital room. The walls were soothing blue. There were windows at the far side, but the blinds were drawn.

Eight days. The answered filled Donnelly with alarm. There was something he had to do. Someone he had to tell … something. And he had to do it right away. If it wasn't already too late.

The nurse put the straw to his lips again, and he drank as deeply as he could before she took it away. She put the cup on the bedside table and checked his vital signs with quick efficiency. It was fairly simple, since he was wired to an array of monitors; it mostly involved pressing a few buttons and reading the results. "Do you have any pain?"

He thought about it. The fact that he had to think about it was the answer, of course. His ribs ached softly. His front of his left shoulder was a little more achy. His right hand felt heavy. He lifted it slightly and saw that it was in a cast to the elbow. He wiggled his fingers. They were reassuringly pink. But none of the injuries rose to the level of actual pain. "No."

"You let me know." She patted his shoulder, offered the water one more time. "We'll take good care of you."

"Thank you."

She glanced toward the foot of the bed, then quickly back to his face. He thought he saw a flash of sympathy. "I'll have the doctor come in to speak with you as soon as he gets here," she said.

He gestured for the water again. "Could I …"

The nurse smiled. "One more. Then we need to let it settle."

She gave him one more drink of water. She checked his IV, then slipped the call button under his right hand. "I'll be right back," she promised.

Donnelly watched her out the door. Then he groped with his left hand for the side rail. The pain in his shoulder grew sharper, but it was still tolerable. It took him several attempts to find the right button, the one that raised his head further. He held it down until he was sitting almost upright. His head swam; he'd been flat on his back for eight days. He released the button and waited until his vision steadied.

_The SUV. The dump truck barreling toward him. The world spinning, over and over. And then something else. Someone with him. Footsteps. Gunshots … _

He put his hand on his chest. It hurt when he pressed down. But there were no bandages under his hospital gown. He pressed harder. It hurt more. Bruises, then. His vest. He'd been wearing his vest. He'd gone to arrest … to arrest …

He looked toward the end of the bed.

He'd known, somehow, what he would see. He couldn't feel anything, no pain, no nothing, but he knew. The SUV flipping, the dashboard flattening downward, pinning him, crushing his leg …

Donnelly concentrated on moving his right foot. The blanket at the end of the bed stirred. Not paralyzed, then. Good.

Left foot.

Nothing.

He could confirm easily enough. He just didn't want to yet. Not yet.

He stared toward the window for a very long time. Beyond the blinds — what? The city? Was it morning or evening? Where in the city was he? Was he even in New York anymore? Or was there just an empty garden there? Or a blank brick wall behind a faux window?

And whatever was out there, what the hell was he going to do about it anyhow?

He looked back at his feet. Right foot, moving back and forth. Good. He moved it toward his left foot.

Nothing.

There was nothing where his left foot should have been.

Donnelly felt his head swim again. He swore out loud. He was not going to pass out. Not until he knew. He sat forward, put his hand on his thigh. The pain in his shoulder brightened. Collar bone versus seat belt, he realized, and the seat belt had won. Better than forehead versus windshield. He ignored the pain and slid his hand downward. Knee. He could feel his knee. That was good. Below that, bandages. Lots of heavy bandages. And then … nothing.

Blackness crowded suddenly at the edges of his vision. Donnelly pushed himself back against the head of the bed. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and then another.

The blood pounded in his ears. He heard an alarm go off softly beside him, one of the many monitors reacting to his sudden distress.

Distress. That was the word for it.

He kept his eyes closed and let the darkness wash over him again.

* * *

Doctor Blake was a tall black man with just enough gray in his close-cut hair to be reassuring. He had a deep voice and he was very calm.

"I'm very sorry about your leg," he began simply, after he'd introduced himself. "Your foot and ankle were crushed in the car crash. We did everything we could to save it, but you developed an infection and it advanced until we were concerned that your life was at risk. That's why we kept you sedated for so long."

"I need to contact my office."

Blake nodded. "I've already contacted them. Someone will be here to interview you this afternoon."

"I need to call them now."

The doctor pursed his lips. "They've asked us not to allow you any outside contact until you've been debriefed."

Donnelly thought about it, then nodded. That was standard procedure. Carter, John Warren or whoever he was, and the woman with the gun had eight days' head start. A few more hours wouldn't matter.

The doctor continued to speak. Something about a concussion, a broken collar bone, a broken wrist. And the leg, amputated below the knee. Healing period, reconstructive surgery, prosthetics, rehab … Donnelly had the feeling the man was being very thorough. But he couldn't focus on his words. He didn't care. The woman with the gun. Dark hair, dark eyes, thin face … why was she helping them? Part of their organization, obviously. What was their goal?

"Agent Donald?" Blake prompted softly. "Do you understand?"

Donnelly blinked, focused. "Donnelly," he said.

"Pardon?"

"Donnelly. My name is Donnelly."

The doctor frowned. He glanced down at the chart in his hands. "Your name is Ellis Donald. Do you … not remember that?"

Ellis. Ellis Donald. That was not his name. Was it? He had to do a quick mental check. He didn't think he was confused on that point. No. But then why …

The nurse had been so quick to assure him that he was safe here. They'd given him a false name, but Ellis — his middle name, the name he used socially — so he'd recognize it. _What the hell was going on?_

He looked at the doctor. Dark, worried eyes studied him back. He'd had a head wound. A moment of confusion would lead to a whole raft of new tests. He could see the man tensing to write orders.

He hoped he wasn't planning anything worse than that. "Sorry. It was an … an undercover identity. I used it for a long time. Sometimes I … forget. Habit."

Blake nodded again, clearly only partly convinced. He made a quick note in the chart, probably something about watching for further signs of confusion. "Do you have any questions for me, Agent Donald?"

"I'm sure I will," Donnelly allowed.

"That's likely. I'll be by this evening. We can discuss any concerns you have then. For now, you should get some rest."

"I will. Thank you, Doctor."

The doctor left. An aide came in with a lunch tray. It was all bland food, soft; breakfast had been the same. They were, the nurse had told him, easing him back onto solids. After eight days that seemed reasonable. Donnelly imagined a big juicy ribeye on the plate, and his stomach roiled ominously. Pudding was definitely a better choice at the moment.

He paused with the spoon halfway to his mouth. False identity, assurances of safety, the woman with the gun. Poison was not outside the realm of possibility.

Donnelly glanced at the IV in his arm. He'd been here for eight days, they said, and from the color of the bruises on his chest that was about right. They'd had plenty of time to poison him, if that was their plan. And much more convenient delivery systems than pudding at hand. He ate his lunch, slowly.

The nurse came in, checked his vitals, gave him more pain meds, and he slept.

* * *

When he woke, there was a stack of files on the bedside table, and a small computer tablet. Donnelly cranked the head of his bed up and pulled the little rolling table over. The files were all standard FBI file folders. The first one was marked 'Stanton, Kara'. He flipped it open. The picture clipped inside was the woman in the heels, the one who'd shot him.

She was dead. Blown up by her own bomb, presumably a car bomb, the day after she'd shot him.

He read through the rest of the file. It was sketchy; she had been a CIA operative, and she'd been declared dead years before her current death. The Agency was being predictably unforthcoming about details – any details. But the DNA was conclusive.

The next file was for Mark Snow. Donnelly knew more about him from his own research. He was also dead, in the same car with Stanton, and again the DNA was conclusive. But then the report went wrong; some idiot named Ross had concluded that Snow had been the elusive Man in the Suit. No mention of John Warren at all.

No mention of Joss Carter, either.

Donnelly closed the folder and slammed it down. _Idiots._ He'd given them everything. How could they possibly think that Snow had been their man? Snow had been sent to retire the Man in the Suit; they certainly knew each other. But Snow was still active Agency. His affiliation had been covered perfunctorily. They'd barely tried. How in the hell …

His eyes fell on the third file in the pile. It had his own name on it.

His real name. Nicholas Donnelly.

He paused again, looking toward the windows. The blinds were still closed. He still didn't know what was beyond them. A city, an empty garden, a brick wall. The hospital — the doctor, the nurses, the aides. They were competent, caring. Kind, even. His wounds were healing. His leg — he remembered the crash, remembered how his leg had been pinned under the dashboard, the engine. He could believe that it had needed to come off.

But the name. The files. The nurse's casual assurance that he was safe.

And now this.

He didn't want to know.

He stared at the blinds for a long moment.

A city, an empty garden, a brick wall.

He picked up the file, and as he'd expected, he learned that Nicholas Donnelly was dead.

There was a single file on the computer tablet. It was a video, thirty-four minutes long, of the funeral mass for Special Agent Nicholas Donnelly.

He watched with cold dispassion. It was very convincing. There was a closed coffin, presumably with some anonymous body in it. There were his sisters in the front pew, with their husbands and their children.

He was not close to his sisters. He hadn't seen them in ten years; he'd never met most of their children.

They were weeping, of course.

He had defended his sisters when they were younger. He had put his own body at risk to protect them. When he was fifteen, he finally grew big enough to stand up to their father. Nick Sr. had promptly killed himself by driving drunk into a bridge piling. The girls had blamed their brother.

They only wanted to remember the good things about their father, they said. Donnelly had supposed that was easy for them, since they hadn't suffered the black eyes and the cracked ribs, the bruises, the broken arm that had gone unset because their father was afraid the boy would say the wrong thing at the emergency room. It was easy for them to remember the good because they'd been spared most of the bad. And in a way, he was glad for them.

His sisters cried in the church, but he knew their grief was shallow and would pass.

Donnelly closed his eyes, let the video run. The music was pretty.

When he watched again, the camera was panning over the crowd. His ex-wife was there, with her new husband. She seemed uncertain, awkward. A handful of agents from the NYC office, a handful more from somewhere else. They looked bored. A couple token local cops, also bored.

Theresa Ramos was there. He was surprised, and touched, that she'd made the trip from New York. They'd only been on three dates.

Christine Fitzgerald was with her.

He watched her. She was very calm, impassive. Apparently emotionless. But watchful. Watching everything, everyone. It was weirdly comforting. Christine was who she had always been: paranoid and deeply reserved. The woman he knew would not cry in public if she could possibly help it. Would not draw attention to herself. The fact that she was not displaying her grief told him that she didn't know the whole thing was a sham. That she'd been taken in by the deception, and was not a part of it.

That was definitely … something. A small thing, but a thing he could cling to through whatever was coming. He was in terrible and probably mortal danger. But at least Christine had not deceived him.

Like Detective Carter had.

He was not surprised that _she_ wasn't at the funeral.

There was a message in the video, of course. The whole world was convinced that Nicholas Donnelly was dead. No one was looking for him. No one was coming for him. He was alone, on his own, and utterly at the mercy of whoever had arranged this elaborate charade.

There was a second message as well. Whoever was behind this knew exactly who had cared about Donnelly while he was alive, and knew how to reach them. They were all there, in living color, and the threat was obvious. _Play along, or everyone you love is at risk._

He'd been kept alive for a reason. He was sure he would learn that reason soon. He doubted that it would be pleasant. He couldn't see any way out. Yet. He could only wait for developments, watch for an opportunity. He couldn't walk on his own, but he might find a sympathetic staff member to help him. Maybe. If he knew who he was working against, what their capabilities were …

He glanced around the private room. Their capabilities were obviously significant, as were their resources.

_Be patient_, he told himself. _Be smart. Watch, and wait._

_And be ready._

The funeral was, all things considered, quite lovely.

When it ended, he shut off the tablet and pressed the call button.

The nurse came promptly. "Something you need, Agent Donald?"

He nodded. "I'd like to get out of bed."

* * *

It was complicated, and required more help from the nurse and the aide she called in than he liked. Donnelly persuaded them to remove most of the monitors and to disconnect the IV, though they left the heparin lock taped to the back of his hand. His broken arm made it impossible for him to use crutches; they finally located a walker, and after a bit of experimentation he could navigate the room, slowly and gracelessly. They got him a robe, navy blue and of good quality. He used the bathroom on his own. Brushed his teeth, combed his hair.

_Hell of an escape plan_, he thought, looking at his reflection in the bathroom mirror. His face was gray and thin, his eyes sunken and accented with huge dark bags. _Step one, get out of bed. Too bad that leaves you too exhausted for step two, whatever that was going to be._

But if he couldn't escape, he could at least face his captor — was that even the right word? — with some kind of ragged dignity. He settled into the armchair by the window, covered his legs – his leg and a half, he amended mentally – with a blanket, and sat back to wait.

He looked toward the blinds, which were still drawn. City, garden, brick wall? He was almost too tired to care anymore, and being too tired made it easier. He reached over and pulled the cord.

He was on the third floor. His window overlooked a courtyard. It was gray with winter now, but there were young trees and flower beds, walkways and benches. It was probably nice in the spring. The courtyard was surrounded on all four sides by the building; it was five stories tall. Some of the blinds on other windows were closed, but others were open; he could see into patient rooms, offices, corridors. Several windows on the ground floor looked into the kitchen. People moved about calmly. It seemed to be a perfectly normal hospital.

Above the roof on the far side of the courtyard, he could see high rise buildings at a distance. He was not in Manhattan. But he wasn't far from it.

City, garden, brick wall. He'd been pretty damn close about all of it.

There was a soft knock on the door, and then a man came into the room. He was small, with wire-framed glasses and unruly hair, in a tidy, unremarkable blue suit. He looked like an accountant.

He was not at all what Donnelly was expecting.

The agent sat very still and simply watched as the man walked – limped – across the room. He stopped in front of him and said, politely, formally, "Agent Donnelly? May I speak to you for a moment?"

"I don't really think I have any choice about that, do I?"

The man inclined his head in agreement. "May I sit down?"

"Suit yourself."

The man sat down and simply looked at him. Donnelly looked back, waiting him out. Finally the man's blue eyes flickered away. Satisfied, Donnelly asked, "Who are you?"

"You can call me Mr. Smith."

"Naturally."

The man's mouth tightened into a small, indulgent smile. There was nothing even remotely threatening about him, and yet Donnelly could feel the hidden undercurrent of power in this man. He would be easy to underestimate, with his size and his limp, but behind those glasses were eyes that saw everything.

_At least_, Donnelly thought grudgingly, _I'm dealing with the top of the food chain._

"I'm sure you have a great many questions for me," the man who was not Smith finally said. "And regrettably, I will not be able to answer most of them. However, let me begin by assuring you that your life is in no danger."

"And why should I believe that?" Donnelly asked.

Smith spread his hands. "Circumstances, of course. If we wanted you dead, Agent Donnelly, we've had ample opportunities to accomplish that goal. Instead, we have gone to a great deal of trouble and expense to save your life."

"Why? What do you want from me?"

The man hesitated.

"Because whatever it is that you think I'm going to tell you, whatever you think I know, I won't give it up." The utter futility of his situation caught Donnelly suddenly, unexpectedly. He couldn't even defend himself against this little man. "So whatever you've got planned, you might as well just forget it and kill me now."

"I don't intend to kill you," Smith replied calmly. He sat back in his chair, his hands on his knees, his posture open, unthreatening. "I would as soon splash bleach on a Picasso as harm you."

"Then what do you want?" Donnelly demanded. "And who are you, anyhow?"

"I assume you mean the plural 'you' in that question, and sadly, that is not one of the answers I can provide."

"I know your voice. You're the one who called me."

The man did not deny it. "Too late to prevent the wreck, unfortunately."

"You're with the government." It was not a question.

"I can assure you, Agent Donnelly, that no government on the face of the earth would claim us."

"So you're some super-secret — what? Paramilitary? Terrorists? What?"

"We exist to help people. To protect lives."

Donnelly snorted. "And your man John Warren, or whatever his real name is, that's what he's doing? _Helping_ people? Protecting them? Funny how so many of them end up dead with his _protection_."

"Do you remember," Smith asked mildly, "your first encounter with the Man in the Suit?"

"He wrecked my vehicle, disabled me and three other agents, and took a prisoner from our custody."

"And what eventually happened to that prisoner?"

"That's not the point."

"And what happened to you and the other agents while you were disabled?"

Donnelly glared at him. "That's not the point, either."

"That _is_ the point, Agent Donnelly. When Kara Stanton wrecked your vehicle and had you disabled, she _shot_ you. John took your prisoner to prevent you from turning him over to police custody, where he would have been killed by officers in the employ of the group you call HR."

"You could have just told us that."

The indulgent smile returned to Smith's mouth. "Oh, yes, because you would have given such credence to an anonymous tip about the safety of a man you believed had just assassinated a Congressman."

Donnelly turned and looked out the window. _City, garden, brick wall._ He took a deep breath. "How did you turn Detective Carter?"

"We did not turn Detective Carter. She remains the same steadfast and morally correct police officer she has always been."

"Bullshit. She lied to me, she impeded my investigation …"

"Detective Carter is no longer your concern, Agent Donnelly. Nor is John Warren."

He took a deep breath. "Because Agent Donnelly is dead," he said, "and the investigations are all closed."

"Yes."

"How did you manage to get me out of the car? My … body?"

"You, and we, were extraordinarily lucky," Smith admitted. "If Miss Stanton had kept to her training, performed the standard Agency double-tap, there would have been nothing we could do for you. By rights you should have been dead at the scene with a bullet through your head. But she was sufficiently distracted by her desire to abduct Mr. … John, that she deviated from that procedure. She put two rounds in your chest, in your vest, and she didn't check your body, nor Detective Carter's."

"Abduct? She wasn't working with him?"

Smith sighed patiently. "No. She and Agent Snow were very much working _against _us. Although, in this instance, Agent Snow's cooperation was also coerced."

"I don't understand. She came to rescue him, to take him from me."

"She came to kidnap him, for her own purposes. For the purposes of her new employers. You were merely collateral damage."

"Who are her new employers?"

"We're still trying to determine that."

Donnelly gestured to his file. "Why do they think I died from gunshot wounds? It should have been obvious to any investigator that I was wearing a vest. No bullet holes."

"We have a number of first responders on our payroll for just such occasions," Smith answered sedately. "The first officer on the scene determined that you were still alive and administered a powerful sedative. The first paramedic on the scene smeared the blood around appropriately and pronounced you dead. And, of course, draped the customary sheet over your body." He nodded thoughtfully. "It's funny, how even the most experienced investigators are reluctant to look too closely at a human body if they can avoid it. Our medic told them you had two bullets in your chest, and they left it to the coroner to fill in the details later." He gave a little shrug. "Managing at the scene was the hardest part, of course. Once they had you in the body bag, the swap was simple."

"I suppose you just killed some bum then and stuffed him in the bag?"

"That wasn't necessary. There are always an abundance of dead bodies to be found in the city, if you know where to look."

Donnelly sat back and looked at the man. He was impossibly calm about the whole situation, as if they faked deaths and removed bodies from crime scenes every day.

Maybe they did.

"So now I'm dead," Donnelly said. "And yet I'm not. You clearly want something from me. And as I said before, you might as well just kill me now, because I won't give it to you."

The small man sat forward just a little. "What we want, Agent Donnelly, is for you to continue the work that you've done so well thus far. But I am willing to present you with a choice in the matter."

"If my choices are work for you or be killed, I'm sticking with my original answer."

"Agent Donnelly, if you don't mind my saying so, you seem unusually persistent in promoting your own death."

"Maybe that's because I'm supposed to be dead already," he snapped.

Smith nodded. "Fair enough. But as I've said, repeatedly, I have no interest in ending your life. Although I suppose you may elect to do so on your own at some time in the future. You're a resourceful man; I'm sure you could figure something out. That's your option. But that is not my intention. And I sincerely hope that you will not exercise that option. It would be a tremendous waste."

Donnelly sighed. "What do you want from me?"

"You have given commendable service to your country, Agent Donnelly. Your work in counter-terrorism has been exemplary, and has undoubtedly resulted in many lives being saved …"

He gestured impatiently toward the tablet. "I've heard the eulogies, thanks. Get on with it."

Smith pursed his lips, then continued. "If circumstances had been different, if your identity as Agent Donnelly had been allowed to survive," he gestured toward Donnelly's concealed legs, "this injury would certainly have prompted the FBI to offer you an early retirement package. A modest pension, an insurance package, and so on. And we are prepared to make you that same offer."

"What?"

"Retirement, Agent Donnelly. We would provide you with a new identity in a new location. Funds considerably more generous than the Bureau would provide. Whatever background you chose. A second career, if you like, perhaps as a police chief in some small town? Something quiet. Peaceful." He shrugged. "You might even find a wife, have a few children. That would be up to you. But the rest we are willing to provide. Give us the details and we'll make it happen."

"Retirement. It sounds more like witness relocation."

"I suppose so."

"But it's all provided that I never contact the FBI, of course. Never prove that I'm alive, never tell them about Carter and Warren … and you."

"Yes."

"Why would I agree to that?"

"Because the FBI are not the only people who think you're dead. The people who employed Kara Stanton also believe that. And believe me, they are far more dangerous than you imagine."

Donnelly laughed sardonically. "So I'm supposed to believe that all of this," he waved around the hospital room, "stealing my body, the funeral, all of it, was for _my_ protection?"

"Yes. Your protection, and that of those you care for. "

"You have got to be kidding me."

"Agent Donnelly, we have gone to tremendous lengths, and no small expense, to insure your safety."

"Why? Why am I so important to you?"

Smith leaned forward. "Because you are an extraordinary investigator, Agent Donnelly. You possess the perfect blend of instinct and intellect, combined with a fanatical determination. The fact that you were able to identify and apprehend our own operative is proof of that. Your gifts could make an enormous difference in the defense of this country. If you could be in the right place, at the right time, with your skills, you could protect a great many people. You could be a tremendous asset. If you chose."

"I won't work for you. Whoever you are."

"We're not asking you to work for us. We know your make-up well enough to know that you'd never agree to that."

"Then what do you _want_?"

The man sat back, took a deep breath. "There's a division deep inside the NSA. It doesn't technically exist, not on paper, not in any database. It consists of not more than a dozen people, all uniquely gifted and deeply dedicated. People with essentially no lives outside of that division. No connections. No family, no friends. Not even favorite restaurants. Nothing but the job. And their job, Agent Donnelly, is to unravel the most highly classified puzzles that currently exist. The most important puzzles. To determine when and where terrorists plan to strike, and to stop them."

Donnelly stared at him. After a moment the man continued. "They're aided in their work by the most sophisticated technology in the world. Technology so secret that it doesn't technically exist either. They have access to every resource, and they answer to no bureaucracy." Smith nodded, as if to himself. "They are our nation's last line of defense, Agent Donnelly. They stand between our country and the chaos of terrorism. And they consider their work to be a sacred duty. A calling."

"And … you want me to infiltrate them and report to you?" Donnelly asked, incredulous.

"You misunderstand. We don't need information _from_ them. We provide information _to_ them. To aid in their work. And if you go to work for them, you will never hear directly from me again."

"You could get me inside? Into a division that secret?"

Smith nodded. "I could create an identity that would get you into that division. It would take some time. Great care. Significant study on your part to learn your new identity. And also, we would need to alter your features somewhat. You would require enough plastic surgery to deceive facial recognition software. It would be complicated, time-consuming. And expensive. But it could be done."

"And what's in it for you?" Donnelly asked. "If you don't want information from the inside, what's your angle?"

"I already told you," Smith repeated. "We exist to help people. To save lives." He gestured toward the city, far beyond the window. "To prevent what happened here from ever happening again, here or anywhere else in the world. I believe — I _know,_ that you are a man uniquely suited to the task. I can put you in the right place to perform that task with maximum impact."

Donnelly shook his head. "Even if I believed any of this, what's to keep me from telling the NSA about you and this whole farce the minute I get there?"

Smith smiled again, the small, indulgent smile. "If I go through all the effort of placing you within the NSA, Agent Donnelly, you can hardly reveal your true identity to them without also revealing that you were a part of the conspiracy of deception that put you there. And I doubt very much that they would let you walk out the door with your life if they knew they'd been compromised to that extent."

"So I'd have to protect you to protect myself."

"Yes." The man sat forward again. "It would give you a chance, Agent Donnelly, to find out who Kara Stanton was working for at the time of her death. And believe me, that information is crucial to the safety of our nation."

Donnelly looked out the window again. A city, a garden, a brick wall.

_A sacred duty. The chaos of terrorism._ The man was hitting all of his trigger words. Donnelly doubted that was an accident. And yet …

A calling.

A _calling_.

His eyes fell on the tablet again. There was no one he left behind now. Everyone who had cared for him believed he was dead. No one would miss him, if he changed his name and his face, if he took this new assignment. This post. This calling.

"I urge you," Smith said, "to consider very carefully. There is, as far as I can tell, no way back from this path, if you take it. You have the option of a quiet life, a simple life. You have done enough, Agent Donnelly …"

Donnelly looked up at him, and the man fell silent.

They studied each other for a long moment. Finally, Donnelly asked, "What about the woman?"

The small man frowned at him, puzzled. "Miss Ramos? We understood that your relationship with her was … preliminary."

"Christine Fitzgerald."

The frowned deepened. "What about her?"

"Was she in on this? Is she part of your organization? Did she know the Man … your associate? John?"

"No." The man considered a moment. "Miss Fitzgerald is, however, loosely affiliated with other government agencies, as you've already learned from your own research."

"Yes."

"We have reason to believe that those agencies may monitor her activities. For that reason, although we are aware of her considerable talents, we have taken some care to steer clear of her. Unless …" The man's mouth pursed in contemplation. "Have we misinterpreted the extent and nature of your relationship, Agent Donnelly?"

"No." He shook his head emphatically. "She's just a friend." He paused, then added, "A good friend."

The man considered for another moment. "If you think Miss Fitzgerald might be persuaded to join you in your new life … it would be problematic, but we would certainly not be averse to making the attempt. Her skills are … significant."

Donnelly looked at him for a long moment. The man stared right back at him, his blue eyes keen behind his glasses. "She'd have to leave everything. Her home, the café …"

"Homes and businesses are easily replaced. And her talents are utterly wasted in that coffee shop."

"Her friends?"

The man shrugged. "Do you think she could be persuaded?"

He thought about it for a long moment. Christine Fitzgerald could be very impulsive. There was some chance that if he called her up, right now, and said, "It's Ellis, I'm not dead, come away with me, we'll start a new life together and help save the world," she might say yes. He could see her, in his mind, walking right out the front door of the café and never looking back. She could come to him. They could be together. And she'd known lots of veterans; the missing leg wouldn't bother her much. She was smarter than him, but less focused, less experienced. Together they could be a great team. She could leave her past behind her and …

… and it would be a grand adventure, for a while.

… and then it would destroy her.

Because the job would grind on her: the order of it, the routine, the demands for suits and shoes and secrecy, and all she would have outside the job was him, and he wouldn't be enough. Not in the long run. It would all be new and exciting for a time, but that would wear off and she would be stuck there, with no possible way back to her old life. With nothing but a man she didn't even love …

_That first night, _Donnelly thought sadly_. That first night, when she kissed me and invited me upstairs. If I'd gone with her, if I'd put aside my search for the Man in the Suit and made love to the beautiful woman instead, if I'd had the nerve to try to claim her …_

But he hadn't. He'd let the opportunity slide away, and now it was much too late.

_If I had ever given her a chance to love me, I might make the call. But as it is …_

He looked at the man again. "No."

Smith nodded slowly.

Donnelly sighed. He'd already given her up once. The second time shouldn't be so hard. "She was at my funeral. She thinks I'm dead. Let it end there. She's been through enough."

The man looked away, nodded again. "As you wish." He glanced around the room. "I'll get started on the arrangements, then. If you're sure."

Donnelly nodded grimly. "I'm sure."

"You can take some time to think about it …"

"I'm sure," Donnelly repeated harshly. "But, Smith? If you're lying to me. If you contact me once I'm there, if you ever call me for anything … if you attempt to blackmail me …"

Smith cocked his head. He looked, for an instant, remarkably bird-like. "Yes?"

"I will have all the resources I need to find you. And your friends."

The small man smiled, slowly, but more fully than before. "Ah. There you are at last, Agent Donnelly. I was afraid we'd lost you." He stood up. "You should rest. Regain your strength. One of my people will be in touch in a few days."

Donnelly almost smiled back. "But not you."

"But not me, no. It's been a pleasure to meet you, Agent Donnelly."

"Donald," Donnelly corrected. "Apparently."

"Of course." The man collected the tablet and the files and left the room.

Donnelly turned to stare out the window again. A city, a garden, a brick wall.

He didn't believe the man, of course. Not entirely, though there had been hints of truth in his words. He needed to replay the whole conversation in his mind, to sort out where the truth was and where it wasn't. It would be difficult; the man was clearly a practiced liar. But Donnelly had experience with men like him. He could sort it out.

In the meantime, he'd bought himself some time. Time to think, time to recover. Smith was right on that point: If they'd wanted him dead, they'd had their chances. He was reasonably confident that he'd be allowed to heal without interference. To get back on his feet – one standard issue, one retrofit. He could do that.

He could study whoever Smith sent to teach him his new identity. He could probably get some clues to _Smith's_ true identity, and more importantly, to his true intentions.

And if he did end up at the NSA — whatever Smith wanted from him, he'd be in a place to stop him. If he had to burn his cover then, so be it. Courtesy of Mr. Smith, he wouldn't be leaving anyone behind.

He could find out who Stanton worked for and what they wanted. If Smith's intention was to get that information from Donnelly once he had it — well, he could deal with that when the time came, too.

His mind fell back to something Smith had said. His first encounter with the Man in the Suit. He'd been helpless in a wrecked SUV. John could have killed him easily. Could have killed all of them. He'd left them gassed but unharmed. And saved their prisoner's life, from the sound of it.

He heard Carter's voice, behind him in another black SUV. _He's a good man. He's trying to help people …_

He'd trusted Carter, until the end. He'd believed that she couldn't be turned. What if he'd been right about her? What if she was telling him the truth about John?

But she'd told him so many other lies …

The voice on the phone._ Agent Donnelly, stop your car. I'm the partner of the man in your back seat. Your life is in danger. _

Smith, or whatever his name was, had tried to save him. And then _had_ saved him, perhaps, from Stanton's masters.

Donnelly shook his head, frustrated. He didn't know who to believe, or who to trust. No one was who they seemed to be. No one's motives were what he'd thought they were.

Or maybe they were.

He didn't have enough information. His world had dissolved into chaos.

_You abhor chaos_, Christine Fitzgerald had told him once, _and I live there_. That was very true. But for the moment he had no choice. No answers, and no way to get them.

Yet.

_You want to bury me in the NSA, Smith? All right, then. Do it. I'll play along. But when I have every resource in the world at my command, you can bet I'm going to find out who you are. You and your partner both. And if I have to live with questions and chaos for a while to get there, I will. _

_But I will not give up. And I will find you. _

Donnelly took a deep breath and nodded to himself.

He had a calling, all right. His old life was utterly gone, and everything he cared about with it. But Smith had offered him a new life, a purpose, and Donnelly was going to seize it with both hands.

It was not, however, the purpose that Smith had thought he was offering.

Donnelly nodded again, deeply satisfied, and turned his mind to the new puzzle he'd been presented.

The End


End file.
